


STOP HIM!

by DebbieF



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Spoiler Alert - Spoiler Alert - Spoiler Alert for season 3 episode 10 We Are the Garrison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 20:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7816054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebbieF/pseuds/DebbieF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILER ALERT - SPOILER ALERT - SPOILER ALERT - SPOILER ALERT - SPOILER ALERT - SPOILER ALERT  - SPOILER ALERT - SPOILER ALERT<br/>For Season 3, Episode 10: We Are the Garrison<br/>Stand Alone story which I've been meaning to do ever since seeing this particular part.<br/>As always Constance and d'Artagnan are not married, just friends.<br/>This story is from Athos' POV</p><p>++++</p>
            </blockquote>





	STOP HIM!

_The Garrison_

Fire... destruction... chaos surrounding us from all sides and I feared for Constance's and Brujon's fates.

When I noted d'Artagnan's struggles against Porthos, I knew what the Gascon wanted to do but twas an impossible task. No one could have survived that blast.

Hearing Porthos' roar out the younger man's name, over the crumbling ruins of what once was our home, I jerked my head around toward that agonized sound and my heart stopped dead.

 _Dead_ as my former protégé, turned best friend and son, would be after racing into those flames. " _STOP HIM!_ " I screamed out hoarsely, my throat was filled with soot and ash to the point that it didn't even sound like it belonged to me any longer.

But as all three of us headed toward our bullheaded Gascon, a tremendous explosion blew us all off our feet. I recovered first just in time to stop Porthos from following our youngest into the fiery pits of hell. Tears filled Porthos' dark eyes as I held him back. I wished the same could be said of me but mine were all used up.

Returning from the battlefield after four long years, where I lost good soldiers and friends, to face the latest evils preying upon Paris in the likes of Feron, Grimaud, Marcheaux and Gaston had worn me down. Tears had been shed, over a bottle of poor vintage in the privacy of my own home, where none of my brothers could see me.

The deaths of both King Louis and Treville, within days of each other put the lock on my heart and I had thrown away the key. More tears would only weigh me down now, and oh how I longed to cry for d'Artagnan's loss. It hurts in a way that I never imagined it would. If it wasn't for the fact that everyone looked to me for leadership, it would have been Porthos doing his damnest to keep me from joining our pup. Oui, the lad was still our _pup_ and always would be. Even death couldn't take that away.

I can't do this anymore, who am I fooling? No more would I get to relish d'Artagnan teaching the cadets everything that I had ever taught him. Nor see the lad gaze up at the balcony, where Treville once stood, to make sure I noticed that the Gascon was emulating me. Head over heart every damn time!

I turned around in a daze, squinting my eyes through the hazy smoke swirling all around me, wondering where Aramis was. Then I saw him tending to the wounded that had been found. I dared one more look over my shoulder at what had become d'Artagnan's grave and, once again, my heart stopped upon seeing what couldn't have been humanly possible.

Out of that blazing inferno came our Gascon, kicking away debris left and right while carrying a most precious burden to all of us. He was nearly as dark-skinned as our Porthos, covered as he was in dirt, soot and ash. Our youngest had literally been to hell and back but had weathered the storm, surviving the test.

Rushing to aid him, d'Artagnan yelled that Brujon was still in the burning building. Glancing at Constance, my heart was heavy for I saw no sign of life. I couldn't waste anymore precious moments thinking upon her, while Brujon's life was on the line. So Porthos and I rushed inside, what was left of the structure, leaving Constance to Aramis' care. But all the while I prayed for God to be merciful, having already given me the gift of d'Artagnan. Though I feared I may have been asking too much for him to spare us the loss of her bright light.

++++

Brujon was safe at least, albeit in rough shape. Gazing upon Clairmont's horrible injuries, I sent up another silent prayer of thanks that God hadn't taken d'Artagnan away from us... away from me. When I think upon it, I've prayed more this night than I had the entire time I've been a Musketeer. Perhaps it was time for me to show my face inside a church in a different capacity than the one where I attend guarding Their Majestys.

Watching the Gascon giving Constance some water, I knelt down between the two of them. "It took you long enough, Mademoiselle," I smiled tenderly at her. My one finger trailed down her dirty face leaving a streak behind. If she had looked into a mirror, I'm sure Constance would have pulled a face at her reflection. "Now where's my wine?" Her blue eyes twinkled up at me, aided in sitting up with d'Artagnan's help, she choked out a response.

"Took," she let out a strangled cough and d'Artagnan thumped her back a few times, "took a wrong... wrong turn," she nearly hacked out a lung trying to get her words out, "somewhere along the... way."

I grinned down at her amusing remark and continued to observe our Gascon with her. "Tis fine, Constance," I told her, tucking her filthy hair behind an equally filthy ear. "I know where Porthos hides the good stuff." Then I placed a hand behind d'Artagnan's neck, giving it a fond squeeze. Holding up my hand, I made sure his focus was entirely on me. "Do... not... ever... do that to me again!"

The lad's mouth was working, I could see it, but nothing came out. Instead I suddenly found myself with an armful of our youngest, as d'Artagnan hurled himself at me, weeping quietly into my pauldron. I made soothing sounds, rubbing his back up and down. I probably said quite a bit of nonsensical things as well. None of which I'll remember later nor I hope would d'Artagnan.

But by heaven! He was _alive_! _Alive_! And the next time I go past Notre Dame I'll probably shock poor Father Favager with my presence.

We have a long way to go now. Tend to our dead and wounded, rebuild the Garrison to its former glory, begin recruitment of new cadets and, of course, defend our new king and Regent.

Grimaud's and Marcheaux's days are numbered. Tis not wishful thinking on my part... tis a fact! They will be dealt with later and with such a blow neither of them would see it coming. _This... I... vow!_

 


End file.
